Rendez-Vous
by im-an-idjit
Summary: Four times Lucifer ran into Balthazar on a mission, and one time he didn't. (secret agent!AU, oneshot)


The first time was in Barcelona.

They met on a roof, one _unbearably_ hot summer day, the kind on which you can feel the sun's rays burning into your skin even when you're moving. Lucifer had sweated through his shirt two hours ago, and now the fabric was clinging onto his skin uncomfortably. He'd lost his sunglasses _and_ his baseball cap at some point during the rooftop chase, which epically sucked ass because it left him squinting as he tried to keep the aim of his gun steady.

The man across him held pretty much the same stance as he did – gun poised, shoulders hunched, elbows bent – although he wasn't squinting, on account of having managed to hold onto his sunglasses. So far, neither of them had spoken or moved or showed any sign of backing off. Between them lay the body of a dead hacker, his blood trickling down the terracotta roof tiles and staining them a deep red. The man had been the subject of the chase and Lucifer's target up until two minutes ago, when the armed stranger put a bullet through his heart.

_A clean, direct hit, _Lucifer mused. _Military-trained._

With his target dead, all Lucifer had to do was retrieve the hard-drive tucked away in the left breast pocket, and he'd be free to fuck off back home. But he was as reluctant to approach the corpse as he was to shoot his remaining obstacle. On one hand, this intruder did shoot the mercenary, so _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_ and all that, but on the other, Lucifer had no idea who this fucker was.

The drop of sweat that ran down his spine was the last straw. He wanted a fucking shower. The sooner he found out who he was dealing with, the sooner he could either a) leave, or b) kill him, and leave.

But he was beaten to the punch when the blond man said, "Look, do you intend to put that down, or are we to stay like this until Judgement Day?"

His British accent, coupled with his attire of a dress shirt, a loose tie and slacks led Lucifer to guess, "MI6?"

One corner of his lip twitched as he nodded. "CIA?"

Lucifer gave a nod of his own as he set his gun back into its holster. "Mind if I give this guy a pat-down?" he asked with a jerk of his chin in at the hacker's corpse.

"Be my guest." The agent smirked. He didn't pose a threat, but Lucifer waited until his gun was safely pointed away all the same.

He didn't need to search the body for the drive, he knew where the damn thing was, but he took his time as he tried to comprehend the uncanny situation he was in. He had no prior information about his mark being targeted by anyone else. This hacker had been a thorn in the CIA's side for the past two weeks, but really nothing more than a glorified rogue programmer. Now it seemed like the States weren't the only ones whose feathers he'd ruffled, but Lucifer knew better than to ask the MI6 agent about it.

"You don't mind if I take this, do you?" Lucifer drawled, pocketing the hard drive. He sincerely hoped the agent wasn't there for the very thing. The Pentagon preferred to keep its blueprints to itself, really.

"Help yourself, I've no interest in that. My only orders are to see the man dead," the Brit explained, as cheerfully as someone discussing the weather.

_Mission accomplished, then,_ Lucifer thought as he took one more look at the face that lay in a pool of blood. Gaze flitting back up, he inspected the man in silence. The MI6 agent had a handsome face, or at least as far as Lucifer could tell through his squint. Sharp features, with dark blond hair and stunning light blue eyes, the same shade as the summer sky.

The moment passed, and the foreigner tilted his head in farewell, before turning away. Lucifer did the same, and each went their separate ways down the opposite ends of the roof.

And that was it.

* * *

The second time was in Moscow.

Lucifer was there for a gala, thrown by the wife of the most notorious crime lord in Russia. The shindig was supposed to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary, Lucifer had forgotten which. Remembering the exact details of the party was not part of his to-do list. He was there with a team to collect hard evidence of a weapons exchange between the aforementioned crime lord and an ex-general (now wanted for several nuclear situations in Africa). Previous intel had led the CIA to believe the exchange would take place in the form of some documents, listing exactly which stolen military equipment the rogue would be supplying.

The guests had gathered in what could only be called a fucking _ballroom_ on the seventh floor of a five-star hotel. The area was brightly lit with ornate golden chandeliers, which was a great advantage as far as scoping was concerned, but it was completely packed with Russia's elite, wearing jet black tuxedos and elegant dresses. Lucifer, along with three other agents, was on surveillance duty, unobtrusively stationed in one of the room's corners, while two more remained equally inconspicuous and no more than five feet away from their target.

The evening was torturously slow and boring, consisting mostly of talk like, _Your two o'clock – does that guy look like he's got something weird in his pocket?_, _I've got a lady in the East wing that's been watching me like she wants to get into my pants_, and most notably, _where the fuck is the bathroom in this joint?_

It wasn't until a new wave of guests arrived from the adjoining atrium that things got interesting. Because amongst the crowd was the agent Lucifer had met in Spain. He caught his eye in seconds, and from the amused expression sent his way, the Brit seemed to remember him too.

The MI6 agent was no longer covered in grime and dust, but dressed in a tuxedo that was just tight enough to show off his body. He scrubbed up nicely for the job; hair combed and styled (trimmed as well, it was shorter than before), face clean shaven. Lucifer saw that he wasn't just handsome – he was _please-let-me-fuck-you-right-now _dangerous.

Smoothly and without so much as a blink in his direction, he slunk beside the CIA agent, flashed him an enticing smile. Lucifer wondered how many people he'd charmed to do exactly as he wanted with that attractive, devastating smile.

"Fancy meeting you again," the Englishman teased his neighbour, causing the latter's comm link to buzz, "_Eyes front, Novak. No flirting with Blondie_."

Lucifer hummed in the affirmative, graciously responding by shutting his earpiece off. "What brings you to Russia?" he asked the other, because if they were here for the same reason, there would be trouble, to say the least.

"Vodka," he replied, "and a pendrive of one rather short Ukrainian mob boss."

Lucifer's been on the job long enough to be able to know when someone was lying. This guy, however, wasn't. Good – not the same objective, then.

Lucifer knew that even as he spoke, the agent was scanning the room, assessing dangers, taking note of all the exits, because he himself was doing the exact same thing. "How about you?" he asked.

He saw no harm in answering truthfully. The Brit's intentions in asking must have been similar to his own. "Some files from a general gone rogue," he said.

A waiter drifted by them with a tray bearing champagne. Each agent took a flute, muttering a thanks in Russian. They didn't speak again, only sipped their drinks, until the waiter completely disappeared into the sea of guests. Lucifer recognised a lot of faces tonight, almost all of which had a file back at headquarters, for one reason or another.

"Have you found your guy?" he asked the other, wanting their conversation to last a little longer. It was comforting to know he wasn't totally surrounded by criminals, even if it was a foreign intelligence agent. It grounded him, in a way.

"Behind that door across us is a little room, mostly used for gambling. A waiter tell me that he's currently inside."

At that point, one female guest and a friend sidled up too close for comfort, putting a lid on any interesting talk. Instead, the two agents lapsed into Russian, mostly sticking to the weather and thinly-veiled flirtations. All the while, each agent kept a look-out for development in their separate missions.

It didn't take long. Around the time the topic switched to the countryside, something in the far left of the room caught the Brit's attention.

"I'm afraid I must be going," he murmured in English, low enough for only Lucifer to hear. He subtly but meaningfully tilted his head in the direction of the door that had been under surveillance the whole night.

As Lucifer turned to join his gaze on the Ukrainian exiting, he noticed one of his own partners signalling him with a nod, one eyebrow arched expectantly. He was needed elsewhere as well. "Ditto. I'll be seeing you," he quipped, knowing full-well that wouldn't be the case.

The other agent levelled him with a playful smirk, before replying, "Good evening," and taking his leave.

About a half-hour later, Lucifer was leaving the luxurious hotel with his team and a few papers neatly tucked away in the inside of his tux jacket, the falsified copies of which remained in a certain crime lord's briefcase (he had been too busy being seduced to realise a switch was taking place). As they got into the waiting car across the street, sounds of a commotion came from behind. On a secluded, dark balcony on the hotel's seventh floor, a small man, seemingly unconscious and surrounded by a number of chattering guests, was helped back inside. But it was only Lucifer who noticed another figure climbing down the side of the façade and onto the street, before quietly slipping into the shadow of an alley.

* * *

The time after that was Tokyo.

Now, Lucifer was beginning to get suspicious. Either this was a coincidence of massive proportions, or the universe was fucking with him.

It was well past midnight; the office building he infiltrated had been closed for a few hours now. Even the cleaners had gone home, save one sweeping on the third floor. Interestingly enough, it turned out he wasn't _actually_ a cleaner, but an imposter who had snuck in to break into some hotshot businessman's file cabinet. Lucifer had no idea what the specifics were because the dude was a little too dead to answer any questions and this wasn't even his fucking assignment to begin with. He had been two floors up, planting a bug in the building's computer software.

"This is starting to get weird," Lucifer commented as he watched the British agent get rid of the body (i.e., shoving him into a janitor's closet). "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"Have to dispose of the body somehow, darling, even if it's as ridiculous as this," the other grunted. "But there doesn't seem to be another option, does there?"

"No, not the-" Lucifer gestured vaguely at the (now shut) closet. "I mean our bumping into each other. Are you following me?"

His companion raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "I could ask the same."

"Yeah, but I asked first."

"Oh, _very_ mature."

Two things happened in a flash: Lucifer had the man pinned against the wall, his forearm against his throat, and the MI6 agent had a gun cocked and jabbed into the other's chest.

He blinked hard, his throat vibrating against Lucifer's hold as he snarled, "Get off."

"Tell me the truth, are you really MI6?" the other demanded.

"_Get – off – me_," he hissed, digging the barrel deeper to prove a point.

Lucifer relented a little, lowering his arm but keeping the man caged between his hands. In response, the gun's muzzle slackened against his ribs. The Englishman took a moment to breath in and out deeply, his face impassive.

"I realise how it looks," he said, "but _no_, I am not here for you. I have my own assignments, _from MI-bloody-6_, none of which have anything to do with you Yanks." He wryly added, "It's nothing more than a... happy accident. Are we clear?"

Lucifer nodded, if somewhat uneasily. "Fine. I believe you. But I want your name."

There was a delay in the answer as conflict flickered behind the steely gaze. Finally he said, "Balthazar."

Lucifer clicked his tongue, then prompted, "And your last name?"

"No last name. How about you?"

He paused. Then, "Lucifer."

Balthazar flashed him a cheeky smile. Lucifer took note of the gun's absence. "Then tell me, _Lucifer_, may I also assume that you are in fact CIA?"

"You may."

"With no interest in little old me?"

"None whatsoever. A happy accident," Lucifer teased, although the look Balthazar was sending his way – all feigned innocence, lips parted, eyes sparking – was quickly stirring up some interest low in his gut. With a start, he realised he was staring and worse, all up in his personal space from having had shoved him into the wall. But he didn't move away, too distracted by the curve of his smile, pinkness of his mouth.

Balthazar, by no means stupid, caught on quickly. His mouth widened into an open grin, white teeth on display. Leaning in closer, he let their lips hover inches apart, their noses almost touching. "Agent, are you _attracted_ to me?" he said in a whisper that rang loud in Lucifer's ears.

"I was hoping it wasn't that obvious," Lucifer admitted because, what the hell, he'd know if he had lied anyway.

Balthazar huffed a short laugh, breath warm against his ear. "Is it the fraternising-with-the-enemy bit?"

"No, just you."

Lucifer thought he said something wrong when Balthazar pulled back, but he saw that he was smiling. It was more genuine than any of the smirks Lucifer had seen before.

"Do you plan to lure me into a false sense of security, then ask for government secrets?" he teased.

"If I was, would it be working?" Lucifer quipped back.

Balthazar squinted at him, like he was something he couldn't make sense of. "You'd certainly be testing my will."

Lucifer said nothing, simply stood there and waited. Balthazar did the same, and for a moment that seemed to stretch on for hours, they watched each other, wondering.

This was a terrible, _terrible_ idea. But when Balthazar's hands cupped his jaw, Lucifer let himself be pulled in, sealing their lips together. It was slow, testing, neither really sure what this meant beyond a physical point of view.

Lucifer ignored the fact he thought this might mean anything at all.

They were in a hotel room and stripping layers of clothes off in under an hour. Fingers trailed over shoulder blades and down spines, hands caressed thighs, gasps and murmurs mingled in the dark. Lucifer lost himself in the slow burn of skin against skin, watched Balthazar come undone beneath him in pleas and cries. They rode out their orgasms together, their limbs tangled as warm, sleepy bliss washed over.

When it was done, Lucifer stood up to take a shower and get dressed again. Balthazar didn't ask him to stay, neither did he intend to. Instead, they shared a long, languid kiss and Lucifer left, the warmth of Balthazar's touches still scorching his skin.

* * *

The next time was in Cairo.

Lucifer was bleeding. Like, _really_ bleeding – through the piece of sleeve he'd ripped off to cover the wound with, the shawl he'd put over that, _and_ the hand he applied pressure with. He'd tried assessing the damage made by the bullet, but it must have been a pretty big calibre, because there was just too much blood to see anything. All he could say for certain was that there was a gaping hole just below his shoulder, some few inches from his left lung, and if he was totally unlucky, an even bigger void somewhere in his back.

The whole thing burned like hell, and on top of it all, he was alone. Well, not counting the man he'd shot, lying a few feet away, and all the screaming stall owners and shoppers who had been in the market when the shooting started. But the guy was _dead_, and the bystanders were too busy running for safety to notice anything else, so there wasn't any real reason to count them in the first place.

_That's right, don't mind me, _Lucifer thought as figures hurdled past him, too tired to be bitter about the whole thing. _Just a man bleeding to death. Keep on keepin' on._

By all means, he should have been worried when his vision started blurring, when the whole world turned a shade darker. Blacking out was the last thing he needed, but he couldn't be bothered to care. He was contemplating closing his eyes and just tuning everything out, but a fuzzy shape that suddenly skidded to his side stopped him from making a definite decision.

"Got yourself in a spot of trouble, have you?" he heard a familiar voice chastise. Lucifer adjusted his eyes to see Balthazar bringing in a fresh cloth to substitute the shawl now stained a deep red. His hand pressed over Lucifer's, unconcerned about the blood that was quickly seeping through again. "Have you called for medical evac?"

"Funnily enough, between getting shot and trying to stop the profuse bleeding, I haven't had the time," Lucifer said. "And I had the situation completely under control even before you showed up."

Balthazar chuckled, but it sounded somewhat forced. Then again, Lucifer was _dying_, so his senses might not had been what they once were. "Yeah. I could see that up from the roof," the MI6 agent said. "Came down as quick as I could, but the elevator only goes so fast."

"What are you, some sort of guardian angel?" the other grunted. "You really _are_ following me, admit it."

"If I was a guardian angel, I'd have shown up before you got shot, darling," Balthazar said in response. When he made a move to lean the injured agent forward, a fresh wave of fire washed over Lucifer's entire body. He didn't say anything, though, as Balthazar had a look at his back and announced shortly after, "Good news. The bullet hasn't gone through."

"Awesome. Now I can die happy."

"You're _not_ dying, Lucifer."

The raw intensity of the statement would have startled Lucifer if Balthazar hadn't began running his hands across his chest. It sent Lucifer reeling back into memories of a fervent night in Tokyo, when those fingers danced over his skin, when there was no blood or pain staining him. He was glad to remember it now, and even more glad to know that he was still thinking with the wrong head, despite being on the edge of death. Some things just didn't change.

Balthazar's search finally proved worthwhile, having had produced a mic attached to the wire Lucifer was wearing. He spoke into it, calm but serious, "Agent injured and in need of immediate attention. I need medical evacuation at Khan el-Khalili _now. _I repeat, medical evac at Khan el-Khalili." Turning to Lucifer again, he asked, "How long before someone can get here? Have you any agents stationed nearby?"

It took a moment for him to register and then actually _answer_ the question, because his mind suddenly became clouded again. "Erm... there's a team we've got operating here full-time... They should be fifteen, maybe twenty minutes out."

Balthazar clicked his tongue. "Too long. I'm taking you to the hospital myself." Then into the mic, he announced the change of plan and the new rendezvous. While he dressed Lucifer's wound as best as he could so it would stay put without any support, he said, "It'll be quicker this way. No doubt they've already got word of this disaster, so they'll be on the road. What were you people trying to do, anyway?"

Lucifer tried for a smile, but it may as well have been a grimace. "Classified information."

Then he was heaved up and once his good arm was slung around Balthazar's shoulder, they started in the direction of the MI6 agent's car.

Lucifer spent most of the ride zoning in and out, although Balthazar never once allowed him to fall asleep. A few nurses and nearby EMTs rushed to their parking space at the sight of the bloody torso and Balthazar struggling to keep the other upright. In a haze, he watched doctors settle him on a bed, prep him for surgery and wheel him away to the first free ER. When he woke from the anaesthesia six hours later, two of CIA's operatives were already with him. After his stats levelled out and the doctor announced he was out of harm's way, he was allowed another hour to get it together before questioning.

With one final nod in his direction, the agents left the room to converse outside, and he was alone again.

* * *

The last time was in Washington, D.C.

After the stint in Cairo, Lucifer was put on sick leave until his shoulder fully healed. This meant several months of catching up on much-needed sleep and having all of his brothers less than an hour away from him (most of the time). A pretty sweet deal, all things considered.

Today he was taking a stroll through East Potomac Park, and although the cherry trees had stopped blooming a long time ago, it was still pretty nice. Michael was adamant that he got some sort of physical exercise now that he wasn't bed-ridden anymore. He'd taken the injury way too seriously, while Gabriel not seriously at all. 'Tis but a scratch, he'd said. Castiel had been the only one with the proper amount of sympathy and understanding for his sibling.

Lucifer took a seat on a nearby bench and lightly massaged the spot where the bullet had been lodged in, content with the hour-and-a-half walk he'd completed. It was a good start. His shoulder was hurting less and less each day, and physical therapy was going well. The sling would have to stay on for another three months, but the progress was there.

A short distance away, a jogger stopped because of an untied shoe. It was the same jogger who had been following Lucifer for the entire duration of his walk, as well as the past week. He approached Lucifer's bench and sat down, his breathing steady, eyes hidden beneath a baseball cap.

"Everything all right?" he asked nonchalantly as he raised his water bottle for a drink.

Lucifer waved the concern off with a shake of his head. "It's fine. Just needed a quick breather."

Noting the hand that was still massaging Lucifer's shoulder, Balthazar asked, "Is it hurting?"

"Will you stop mothering me?" Lucifer laughed. "I told you, it's _fine_. More than, really."

"You did nearly die, darling. I worry."

"I was in good hands."

"That you were." He looked down to see Balthazar's thumb graze his wrist. Leaning in, Lucifer pressed his forehead to the other's temple.

"Are you good to continue?" Balthazar said after another pause. "Your brother is right, you do need the exercise."

Lucifer groaned, although it was more for theatrics than anything else. "Not you too."

"Tell you what," Balthazar said, standing up, "let's walk another fifteen minutes, and then we can have a _private_ exercise back at the flat, yeah?"

The way he looked at him, his smile coy, like he was daring Lucifer to kiss him and take him home right now. God, he could get Lu to do just about anything. The other got to his feet too, and together they headed back towards the path.

(Lucifer says 'last time' because both the CIA and MI6 are under the impression the agents haven't seen one another since. This is a lie – they're still very much in contact and share two apartments, one in London under Balthazar's alias, and one under Lucifer's in D.C. It's not the most convenient of set-ups and they're still working on a more permanent answer, but for now, it's more than enough.)

* * *

**A/N: **The result of watching Skyfall too many times.

This one's old, guys. _Months_ old. Written for my sis, since Balcifer is her crackship-turned-OTP. Sometimes I surprise her with lil' oneshots like this.


End file.
